


well, the earth it trembled

by saisei



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gang Rape, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9829181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saisei/pseuds/saisei
Summary: Yuuri is kidnapped from a club in Saint Petersburg.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Blackfoot's version of Morning Dew, which can be heard on [the fic's soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLRzef2XzKSy7TJDqGkLBsKSc825VZYcy0).
> 
> This story was originally posted in installments: [the fourth part (with links to previous parts)](http://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/240571.html?thread=1340794299#cmt1340794299).

Yuuri didn't really enjoy drinking, and he never wanted to get so drunk again that he forgot something as audacious as propositioning Viktor. He had no regrets about Yakov's demand that he give up alcohol during the season while under his quasi-care in Saint Petersburg. He had fun out at the club anyway, invited along by Mila specifically to embarrass Yuri, who was trying to show Otabek a good time during his visit. A month ago Yuri had shoved Yuuri up against the wall (again) with the heel of his hand jabbed against his breastbone and demanded (in a very quiet voice) to be taught _cool dance moves_.

Viktor said it was adorable how Yuri and Yuuri were bonding; Yuri texted Phichit to beg him (again) to delete the embarrassing dancing pictures from Detroit.

So here Yuuri was, on a sugar buzz from fruity virgin drinks, dancing with Mila while they both watched Yuri fall even more for Otabek, who'd shown up wearing well-worn black leather and a look of fond amusement.

"But what does Otabek see in _him_?" Mila asked for the third time, as Yuuri pulled her in and away from a circle of flailing arms. "Whatever. I gotta pee."

"I'll come with you," Yuuri said, and then realized how weird that sounded. "I mean – "

"Right now," Mila cut him off, and towed him by the hand off the dance floor, down past the bar to the rear corridor, where they parted ways at the toilets.

Yuuri waited for her when he got out; she wasn't there, so he assumed she was stuck in a queue. He needed to stick with her – his phone and glasses were in her bag – and he was truthfully glad for a break from the pounding music. Even without alcohol his head was spinning; maybe he was getting old.

"Excuse me," someone said, bumping into his shoulder hard from the back.

Yuuri stumbled, and a hand caught his arm. He was about to apologize – an ingrained Japanese response that Yuri mocked him for – when something was slapped over his eyes and all the air whooshed out of his lungs simultaneously. It felt like belly-flopping onto the ice, but he was sure he'd just been _punched_ and he knew he should yell for help – or fight – but he couldn't _breathe_. He was dragged, one assailant on either side, and he heard a door shut behind them. That made him struggle, twisting hard in their grasp and managing to get one arm free before he felt a sharp pain just under his jaw that made him freeze.

"That's right," the man said, dragging the tip of the knife just enough to cut once, the threat plain between them. Yuuri felt the burn of it, and then the warm trickle of blood, while the man barked out what sounded like curt instructions. Yuuri didn't know which would be safer, to say he didn't understand or to pretend he did, but maybe it didn't matter. Yuuri's hands were pulled up behind his back tightly and taped to his elbows, and more tape was pressed over his mouth, and he was shoved like that between them, to another door, from there to outside (sounds of traffic, a garbage stench). Yuuri was lifted and tossed, landing on a hard carpeted surface; the bang of metal doors locking the three of them in confirmed a van and at least one other person, a driver.

_Kidnapped_ , Yuuri thought, his heart beating so fast his chest ached. His throat was dry no matter how hard he tried to swallow, and he tried to force his breathing slow the way Celestino had taught him. But this was nothing like a competition, where he knew the rules and his own program, and his greatest fear was failure. He had no idea why _this_ was happening.

He was pushed onto his back (and his arms, which already ached) and someone pulled off his shoes. _Too bad_ , he thought darkly. If he'd been able to see that one of them was there, he'd have kicked him in the face. He tried kicking out anyway, and got another punch to the stomach. It hurt more this time, and he nearly threw up, bright spots flaring in front of his eyes. He tried to curl around the pain, and was shoved down. His jeans were unbuttoned and yanked down to his ankles; the knife reappeared, pressing against the frantic bob of his adam's apple, and then sliding down to the collar of his shirt (Viktor's, actually, because he was out of town and Yuuri had figured he'd never find out).

The man by Yuuri's feet grabbed his knee and ground his fingers in. He said something, and laughed, and then asked the other man something angrily. The answer came in the knife's downward travel, sawing through the fine silky fabric and carelessly catching against the skin. Yuuri pictured beads of blood welling up, and felt himself shaking despite knowing he needed to stay still.

The knife sliced easily down over each hip in turn, and then his underpants were pulled off. The other man spoke; the blade of the knife was wiped off on Yuuri's stomach, first one side then the other; and he heard the soft fake-shutter sound of a camera phone. For a moment, Yuuri felt relief. This was blackmail, or some internet thing; he could live with embarrassing pictures, they could take as many as they liked if they just let him go when they were done. Viktor would understand.

Hard slaps to his face – left cheek, right, left – and Yuuri swallowed blood from his bitten tongue as the man snapped at him. Something, something, something about his father? And then a phrase he knew from sex: _roll over_. Probably metaphorical, he told himself; it's not like you know the language well. But he still tensed and dug his heels in, and got flipped anyway.

As soon as his knees hit the dirty-smelling carpet, he pushed himself up to kneeling, trying to wrench his ankles free of his jeans so he could kick or run. He got kicked himself, though, a bootheel between his shoulders knocking him down facefirst and pinning him there. The other man knelt over him, yanking his hips up, and spat three times.

"We took Viagra for this," the man said, like he was angry with Yuuri, like it was Yuuri's fault for making him do this, when Yuuri was so undesirable and unattractive. The man's thumbs digging in hard as he spread Yuuri's ass, and then he leaned his weight forward. Behind the tape, Yuuri's eyes went wide as his body was forced open.

_I don't want this_ , he thought, over and over, and knowing that what he wanted didn't matter felt like drowning. Where was Mila, why hadn't she come looking for him, why hadn't anyone found him? Why was the cock in his ass so hot and so large, why did every hammering thrust force his breath out his nose, why when the last thing he wanted was to feel this? He was being scraped raw inside and out, shuddering like the whole world was quaking, and he _wanted_ – 

"More," the man above him said. More pictures, and he told what must have been a joke, because the cock inside him jerked when the man laughed. Yuuri didn't get all the words – mother and father, studying, porn? Yuuri's thoughts shied away from thinking about his mother (warm, safe, comforting) because if he cried he wouldn't be able to breathe, and breathing was the only thing he could do now. One breath, then another, and he pictured a late-summer typhoon – the building winds turning the rain into stinging lashes, whitecaps battering the shoreline, the whole frame of the inn swaying under assault. Once the storm was upon you, all you could do was endure.

Yuuri was good at endurance, and perseverance. Not inborn genius, but _stamina_ , and that was what he needed now. Just keep breathing as the man's rhythm became desperate and animal, as his hands grabbed and bruised as he came.

_Only Viktor's ever done that_ , Yuuri thought, but it was like trying to look at something very far away, and he let the observation slide away as unimportant. What mattered now was that the men were changing places, one dick slipping out only to be replaced by another, and it hurt.

Yuuri dealt with bruises and falls and blisters and pain every day, so it angered him that his reaction to _this_ pain was so childish, tears pricking his eyes and his throat burning from holding back cries. He was having trouble getting enough air, so he was starting to lose track of things. He knew that was bad and dangerous, but he wanted to not remember, too. He didn't want to be here for this, his tongue sticking to the roof of his dry mouth, tasting the iron of blood and the adhesive chemicals in the tape, listening to the sound of pictures being taken and the jokes and the grunting as the second man finished.

The van had stopped moving at some point while Yuuri was being fucked, and now the back doors were slung open, cold night wind giving him goosebumps all over. He wanted to run but he didn't think he could; still, he pushed against the fabric tangled around his ankles, moving very, very slowly, as if by doing so he couldn't be seen. He heard more voices, greeting the men from the van: _hey, how's it going, hey yourself, you're late, damn it's cold, put on a coat then_. Yuuri was listening for names – names were important – but he couldn't pick any out from the slurry of alien words. He hoped they forgot about him; he really wanted to be forgotten and left alone, even here, way out in the countryside, where kidnappers could laugh loudly in the middle of the night because there must be no neighbors, no help to be found.

"Go ahead," someone said, "it's free," and Yuuri's calf was slapped twice, like they were examining produce or livestock.

"He'll have to get me hard first," came a new voice. Yuuri hated that _those_ words he understood, that he'd learned them with Viktor gazing at him with arousal-dark eyes, teasing and a challenge together. Nothing, nothing like this, where he was dragged around, scared and confused, until his head was in the doorway and tipped back by the way his arms were bound behind his back. The tape was ripped off his mouth and he gasped for breath, air cold on his teeth but each deep lungful feeling like mercy, clearing his thoughts.

A hand wrapped around his dick, rubbed raw from the carpet, giving a desultory squeeze, and he cried out before he could stop himself, saying _no, don't_ , but there was already the cold drag of a blade under the head, and all Yuuri could do was go still, like he was frozen straight through.

"Open your mouth," and he did, and a half-hard cock was shoved in. "Suck," he was told, and he did. The man didn't even need to warn him about biting, not with the knife there. Yuuri tried to be clumsy, though, so they wouldn't think he knew how to do this, and so it wouldn't feel good. This was worse than before, because he couldn't escape into his head and away from his body; he had to make decisions and think about what he was doing. What he looked like, who he was with. How when he'd first learned what a blowjob was from reading an inn guest's left-behind porn, he'd spent every night for weeks imagining doing that to Viktor; sucking on two or three fingers and getting himself off imagining Viktor's face flushed with pleasure, his gorgeous hair fanned out across the bed.

_This_ was nothing like _that_ ; this was just a sore jaw and spit trailing out of his mouth and his throat scraped raw, his fingers going numb as the cock in his mouth hardened. When the man pulled it out, Yuuri felt no relief, because he'd only been helping him get it up, after all. The man clambered up into the van, twisted Yuuri's hips to the side, and shoved in with a series of harsh grunts. Yuuri bit back his own pained moans, flexing his fingers against the carpeting, and wasn't surprised when his mouth was violated by another cock.

One of the men in him grabbed his dick and tugged, jerking him off to the jeers and approval of the others outside. Yuuri hated the way his nipples were so cold that they'd pinched into hard nubs, because suddenly that felt good, in a mechanical, impersonal, devastating way, the way his dick did, and his ass, a sickening pleasure building up against his will. He didn't want these men to see him come, in the same way he didn't want them fucking his ass or his mouth, or taking pictures, or laughing. 

But he might as well have wanted the moon, because after the man was done with his ass, he forced something cold and hard and huge in, jerking it in and out in tandem with the pulls on Yuuri's dick, and Yuuri came in shock, his ass clenching down in painful hard spasms as if trying to force the object out. He convulsed, and the other man pulled his dick out, holding his head down and coming over his face, so that Yuuri had to cough and choke just to get a breath.

"Who's next?" he heard, and he couldn't stop himself from shaking, like his bones had turned to ice. He couldn't do that again. He'd rather – 

"This isn't him." A new voice, deep and sharp. "This kid's Chinese, look at him. And no – " Yuuri didn't catch the word, but the man bent his shoulder up, displaying something. "Look. No tattoos. You morons." Grumbling; angry words that came from all sides too fast for Yuuri to follow – accusations and blame. "I'll clean up," the new man said, cutting through the noise. "Give me the keys. And get that fucking bottle out, what the hell's wrong with you."

"He liked it," someone said, but there was less laughter this time. Shoes and boots scuffed against the pavement outside; the van rocked as someone climbed in and pried Yuuri's legs open, twisting at the thing in his ass and yanking until finally it ripped free with a feeling as if his insides were being pulled out. The sound of air moving, and glass shattered outside, provoking curses. Yuuri curled up into himself as best he could; the van doors were slammed shut and bolted, and the engine starting made the floor shudder under him. Yuuri knew he should get his legs free and try to rip the tape around his arms, but he was so tired. He didn't want to die like this; he wished what he wanted mattered.

Yuuri couldn't keep track of the turns the van made; under the tires the road conditions went from rough and potholed to increasingly smoother. Once he thought he heard another car, and he nearly shouted, even though they couldn't have heard him. Finally, the van pulled over to the side; a crunch of gravel; the doors swung open again.

"Get out," the man said. He manhandled Yuuri when he moved too slowly, pulling him to sit on the edge with his legs dangling while the man untangled his jeans and shoved them up, so when Yuuri slid out gingerly, he didn't trip, although he was hobbled.

"I took their phones," the man went on, moving Yuuri to the side so he could close up the doors. "I'll – " and that was a verb Yuuri didn't know, so he supplied his own:

"Break them. _Burn_ them." Yuuri's voice shocked him, unfamiliar to his own ears; demanding, even stumbling over foreign words.

"I have a gun," the man said, as if he expected Yuuri to cower.

Yuuri was beyond caring. "I have a mother," he snapped back.

The man spat out a curse – Yuuri understood the intent if not the meaning – but then he heard a clatter on the asphalt and the sharp snaps of plastic splintering, and he swallowed down hard to keep from babbling his gratitude.

"Forget this happened," the man advised, coming closer. He grabbed Yuuri and held him still with an iron grip on his shoulder, but Yuuri flinched anyway at the sound of ripping tape, even as his numb arms fell free. "Go home."

Yuuri heard him walk away, but the van was long gone before he was able to raise his hands and force his clumsy fingers to tear the tape away from his eyes. He blinked away tears – it felt like he'd ripped out his lashes and brows as well – and took in the landscape. In the early morning light, he saw flat grassy plains reaching out to either side of the road, and no buildings anywhere. He managed to get his jeans up over his hips and halfway zipped, enough that he could walk without falling. He found the broken phones on the ground, and managed to bend over enough to pick them up and throw them as far as he could, to disappear into the weeds. The remains of Viktor's shirt provided no warmth, but he hunched into the fabric as he turned east and set his bare feet to the road. He was free and alive and no one was touching him, and unlike a nightmare he wasn't going to wake up from this, so he had to keep going.

A car passed him once, heading west. He'd thought about waving and trying to make them stop, but the idea was terrifying.

Maybe a quarter of an hour later, another car went by, and right after that a police car pulled up in front of him, blocking his way. He stopped, looking at the police officers who got out, and wrapped his arms even tighter across his chest. They approached him with exasperation, like he was just a nuisance and not a danger. He answered the questions he understood – his name and address, his nationality – and stared blankly at others – how could he explain what he was doing here, in any language?

The woman officer went back to the car to radio in, while the other kept an eye on him as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. Viktor was going to be angry with him for messing up his feet, he thought. Which made his eyes leak again, and he wiped his face on his sleeve. 

When the woman officer came back, her expression had changed, the lines on her face starker, and she spoke with her partner too rapidly for Yuuri to follow. She was holding a cell phone in one hand, and for a horrible moment Yuuri thought she was going to take his picture, but then she walked over and handed it to him, making a gesture with her other hand to show that he should talk.

"Hello," he said, holding it to his ear, and the woman on the other end introduced herself in Japanese as Yamamoto, from the consulate. Yuuri's hand started shaking so badly that he could barely keep his grip, as she confirmed his identity and told him he was safe now. Despite knowing that the phone was the police officer's, Yuuri clung to it even after the ambulance arrived, hanging on to Yamamoto like she was his lifeline, even though after a while she ran out of crucial things to say – translating for the EMTs and the police – and filled in the silence with random observations.

She was waiting for him at the hospital, along with Yakov and more police. Yuuri'd been half asleep in the ambulance and exhaustion still dragged at him, making his thoughts sluggish and his reactions dull. He felt like he was sinking down under cold dirty water, watching the light fade into darkness, and too weak to fight to breathe. But he still clung (stupidly, stubbornly) to awareness, and stumbled through the hours and the exams.

His doctor seemed to understand, but she kept asking, "Is this okay? Do you understand?" Yuuri was pathetically glad to have choices, but as time dragged on he wanted more and more for someone else to make them. No, he didn't _want_ to be examined down there, but he knew he had to for his own peace of mind, so he would; _yes_ , he wanted all the vaccinations and prophylactic drugs for STIs and HIV; no, he didn't want to make a press statement, _please, Yakov, do it for me_ ; yes, he'd do his best to describe the men and the van and what had happened; and sure, the police could keep his clothes as evidence, also they should return the police officer's phone. Yamamoto stuck to him like glue, until finally, regretfully, she had to go. Yuuri felt terrible about asking a last favor: to tell his parents (not everything – that idea filled him with horror – but the kidnapping at least was going to be on the news) because he couldn't right now. "It's okay, I understand," she said, giving him a solemn nod as she left.

He'd been helped to wash and brush his teeth, and was changing into clothes Yakov had brought (not his own, but they smelled familiarly like ice and sun) when he heard voices raised outside, and sharp footsteps, and a rap at the door.

"A moment," the doctor called. Yuuri pulled on the jacket that matched the sweatpants and fumbled the zip all the way to the top, but he still felt exposed as the doctor crossed to open the door. She wasn't any taller than Yuri's mother, so Yuuri met Viktor's gaze over her head as she blocked the doorway, asking something.

It took a moment to process, but then Yuuri nodded and said of course Viktor could come in.

Another moment later, and he repeated himself, in English and not Japanese this time, so she understood and stepped aside.

Viktor looked pale, even for him, with shadows under red-rimmed eyes and his hair half limp and half flyaway with static. Yuuri wondered how many planes he'd taken to get here so quickly; how much Yakov had told him; what Viktor saw when he looked at him. That narrow-eyed stare was capable of spotting the slightest flaw in a jump or mistake in a footwork sequence, so he could surely read every bruise, raw scrape, and bandaged cut.

Yuuri held out his hand, not even trying to hide the way he was shaking, and Viktor crossed to him in two strides, hugging him close with a shuddering sigh.

"Don't cry," Yuuri said, grabbing a handful of Viktor's sweater and holding on. "Don't make me cry. Take me home. I'm tired, and I need to wash my hair."

Viktor's grip tightened, and for a moment Yuuri couldn't move, frozen, the taste of tape on his tongue. He must have made a noise, because Viktor let go immediately, taking a step back as far as Yuuri's anchor hold on him permitted, face suffused with something like guilt and hurt and fear before smoothing into the faintest of smiles, chin rising in reassurance. Yuuri wanted to apologize for forcing him into that role, but Viktor shook his head very slightly. "I like when you let me wash your hair," he said, more a question than a challenge.

Yuuri nodded back. "When we get home," he agreed, and took a breath. He unfurled his fingers, and let his hand fall, only far enough so he could grab Viktor's hand and lace their fingers together. "Tanomu yo." _Take care of me._

"Of course." Viktor looked as if he wanted to say more, but something in Yuuri's expression stopped him – _sorry,_ Yuuri thought, but he was glad, because he was still drowning and he was sure thinking about love would hurt. Viktor spoke with the doctor instead, getting instructions for home care and pamphlets and medicines, and Yuuri let himself be pulled along with him, down the side corridor Yakov indicated to a back door and the hired car waiting there. Yuuri nearly balked, but Viktor thought it was safe, and right now Yuuri was trusting Viktor with everything. In the back seat, he leaned his head on Viktor's shoulder and tried to close his eyes, but it was impossible until they were in the apartment with the door locked and Viktor was gently rubbing Yuuri's hair dry with a towel. _This is nice_ , Yuuri thought, like the weight of ballast falling away, and drifted into blessed darkness.


End file.
